


Three Vignettes After the Edge

by RurouniHime



Series: Penguin series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Depression, Established Relationship, Family, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is dark, there is a visit, and a decision is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Vignettes After the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: includes reference to the death of a small child.
> 
> You'll want to read World's Edge before reading this one; otherwise this won't make as much sense.

**i.**

The room was awash with moonlight, the colours all leached into ashy greys and stark whites. Harry closed his eyes and breathed, listening to the house settle. The faintest sound of wind chimes came from outside.

Maggie's pillow looked plump and fluffy, her bedspread neat. The shadows of the windowpanes cross-hatched the flower quilt. Harry had no idea what time it was anymore. The moon had slipped lower on the horizon and the night had settled into a distinct silence beyond the window's glass.

He turned, unwilling, but forcing himself to look away, and padded through the doorway back down the hall. The boards creaked comfortingly beneath his feet, and Harry relished the blue darkness. The door to his bedroom was ajar, as he had left it, and the soft rush of air furled into the hallway, slinking around his bare ankles.

Harry entered the room and shut the door behind him. The curtains rustled, cloaking the open window, and soft light flowed into the room, banking the shadows. Draco's steady breathing came to Harry's ears. The blond man lay on his back, one arm resting beside his head. The duvet draped his chest, hiding his legs from view.

Harry took a moment to gaze, memorizing the downy softness of Draco's cheeks under the dim light, the imperfect toss of blond hair across the pillow. His lips were parted, very slightly, and as Harry watched, he inhaled and exhaled the gentlest of sighs.

With a sigh of his own, Harry slid onto the bed, carefully stretching out against the other man. He reached, brushed a stray hair from Draco's forehead, and then relaxed onto the duvet, resting his head on Draco's bare chest.

Draco stirred, his hand climbing up Harry's back to settle in a curve over his side. He snuffled once.

"You alright?" and his voice was the slur of half-sleep.

Harry stared at the curve of warm, living skin before him. "No."

He felt Draco come awake, a rapid shift of muscles. His languid breathing sobered into something alert.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

Gods… Why had he answered that way? The night, as ephemeral and changeable as the colour of Draco's eyes, had played tricks on him. Promised him that his words were nothing, that thoughts could be spoken aloud. He was glad he could not see Draco's eyes in the dark; the boundary between speech and thought would all but vanish.

"Tired," he whispered finally, and Draco's fingers paused in their glide over his skin.

"Where were you?" he asked, in a voice too soft to damage. But Harry could hear the suspicion beneath, knowledge of the answer to his question. If he hadn't seen the depth of Draco's sleep a few minutes ago, he would have thought the man had stood in the hallway outside Maggie's room and watched him from the darkness.

"Couldn't sleep," he said. The words clipped across his tongue, and the billow of hurt inside him was substantial.

"Harry?" A hand encircled his wrist, staying a movement he'd not even known he was about to make. Draco's fingers kneaded into his flesh. "Talk to me?"

Harry wanted to laugh. To hide. To just disappear and make this all simple. He rose, pulling his wrist from Draco's grasp, and tried not to watch as the slender fingers twitched after him. "There's nothing to talk about," he murmured.

Draco did reach for him this time, and the play of shadows over the ripples and falls of his muscles was entrancing. "Harry—"

Harry bent, pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of Draco's throat. The pulse under his tongue quickened and Harry found his mantle there, his silence, pushing free of the haunts in the hallway, and he donned it, rolled it over himself and cast a coy leer at the man beneath him. "Told you I couldn't sleep."

Draco would have said more. Unspoken, it hung in the air. But nothing came except a gasp. Draco drew his lower lip between his teeth. Harry sucked at the juncture of shoulder and throat. He felt fingers find his arm and tighten there.

"Why—" It broke off, and Draco drew a rattled breath. "Why do you use this to avoid it?"

Harry paused. There was no pain in the words, but he heard it anyway, different from the slow thud in his chest and head. Draco's fingers dug into his arm and released. The tautness of the other man's body was so very familiar, and Harry looked up without courage, without thought.

Draco's eyes were closed. His body undulated, fell back. Harry wondered if Draco even knew he'd spoken aloud.

Harry had no answer that he wanted to give. His chest felt like an empty cavity, and things echoed inside, things he _didn't want_ to feel again, ever.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bent, made his way down Draco's body, nudging the duvet aside, tracing the heaving chest and soft stomach with lips, eyes, fingers. He reached the cradle of Draco's hips and felt something near his heart swell, pressing against the already fragile walls there. Harry ran his hands over Draco's thighs and bent his head to take him in his mouth.

Draco's hips shuddered. His legs were a warm, damp presence against Harry's cheeks and throat. A long-fingered hand wandered, trembling, into his hair and stroked, cupped. Threaded. Draco's thumb caressed his temple and Harry shut his eyes again.

 

 **ii.**

The clay had begun to dry on Ginny's hands before she came to herself and opened her eyes. Sunlight streamed into the second floor room, and the open door creaked and swayed gently in the wind that gusted through. The air smelled clean, fresh from the rain of the previous day, and it swirled over her cheeks and hands, tickling the stray hairs across the nape of her neck. Ginny drew another deep breath and wetted her hands in the basin to her right. The drier bits of clay fell off in small chunks, fogging the water. She flicked excess droplets from her fingertips and muttered the spell once more. The soft whirrrr of the pottery wheel in front of her built into the quiet.

Ginny slid her palms up and down over the turning mound of clay, just feeling, sensing the pocks and slopes, and smoothing them with deft touches. Without deciding to, she cupped her hands over the top and pushed, and the clay bowed and became fatter, lower on the wheel's surface. She touched her pinky to the glistening exterior and furrows began to form in spiraled circles, weaving from middle to base. Another moment, another press of her palm, and they faded into nothing again.

It was only half-ten, and already she could tell the day would be cool. Restful; it had that sense to it, as if the air were hovering lazily, rising up to blow things about whenever the whim took it. Ginny slicked her hands again and encircled the fat base of the clay, coaxing it thinner, guiding it up until it was a solid, tapering tower with an uneven top. She pressed in with her thumbs and the tower began to hollow out, shadows falling into the core.

A vase, maybe. Or a jug. Handle-less; she didn't feel like dealing with the intricacies of the clay today. And she was getting better at these little projects. Her bowls and tureens were symmetrical now, with tiny imperfections that reminded her how each had felt under her fingers, what her thoughts had been that day. The green one on the far windowsill had a chink in the base, an offering to her forgetfulness concerning the trimming of her fingernails; the reddish one in the corner leaned, a quiet recollection of the lasting sorrow she had felt less and less of since making it. And the gold one. That one was downstairs, perched proudly in the center of the table, with a deep, easy ripple curving elegantly around the rim. Joy, that one. Sometimes she forgot how that felt in general, but she always remembered how it had felt _that_ day, when the glaze had hardened and the sunlight lit the colour richly.

One of the white curtains lifted into the room, rustling over the floor, and Ginny smiled, thinning the rim of her latest project. The quiet was different today. Less empty. There were... things in it. She couldn't name them, but she could feel them, like the familiar creaks of her house at night or the murmur of voices in another room. The air felt vibrant; that was a good word for it, she decided, dipping her hands into her water basin again. The clay slicked up over her wrists, almost to her elbows, and hid her fingers under gloves of moist, earthy beige.

It was a good day for it. Bringing pots to life, all of them slightly different, slightly flawed. They held the shape and brush of her hands. Some of them even held pieces of her red hair, sunken and swirled into the clay before she could notice and nudge them out. It was sometimes better not to fuss with it: the pots were so fragile, collapsing in on themselves at the first blunt poke or scratch. Ginny hummed softly to herself and pinched her fingers around the lip, drawing it out as thin as eggshell. It felt good, creating things again. As if she were giving part of herself to the world.

It had been some time since she had felt up to such an activity.

The low tones of her doorbell filtered up from the floor below, and Ginny paused. It was still almost second nature to listen for Harry's heavy footsteps heading for the front door, to hear the patter of littler feet behind— Ginny inhaled through her nose and concentrated on the clay. It made no sense, really. Harry had never lived in this flat. But memories, and instincts as well, tended to follow a person. Ginny had spent the past few months of silence discovering that fact. Habits she had yet to slough. She lifted her hands and bent to eye the slowly forming pot, noting dips in the rim and not entirely disliking them.

Perhaps... too thin? Ginny wetted her hands and slid them over the clay as it turned, keeping the watery sheen. She could collapse it back down, start over. Try the idea for the vase she'd been wanting to attempt for a few days. Long and thin, if she could swing it, taller, with a—

The doorbell chimed again and Ginny lifted her head, staring at the door to the stairway. Tried to wrack her brains as to who might be visiting her today. She was fairly sure she hadn't forgotten anyone.

A third time, the doorbell sounded. Ginny pursed her lips and rose with an exasperated breath. She lifted her wand in clay-covered fingers and tapped the basin, whispered a levitating spell, and watched as the water swirled up and out to form a transparent cocoon over her rotating pot. That would hold it for half an hour; Ginny wasn't willing to prolong the visit further than that anyway. She walked barefoot over to the door and left the brightness of the room for the darker stairwell, then made her way across the carpeted living room with her hands held up in front of her to lessen the possibility of dripping clay. The fact that she couldn't hug or shake hands with the newcomer should be subtle enough, she thought.

She struggled with the doorknob for a moment before hearing the bolt click. Deciding she didn't care about the clay on her door, Ginny pulled it open and—

And stopped.

For a moment, she didn't have a thought in her head. There was nothing but the person on her stoop, and she had not been prepared at all. But only for a moment.

"Malfoy." It was hard to believe; her brain still wanted to convince her otherwise. But there was no mistaking that hair.

He inclined his head. "Weasley."

Ginny's shoulders hunched before she could stop them. She lifted her chin, lowering her gaze to his. "Weasley-Potter."

Something flickered in Malfoy's eyes, slight and tremulous as a butterfly. "Ginny," he corrected softly.

Ginny listened to the sound of her first name over and over in her head. In his voice. It was not something she'd ever expected to hear, or to like. Malfoy made no move forward, no movement at all. What was he doing here? She'd not seen him in years, though she knew what he did for a living, and considering what Harry did, it was intriguing that they'd never crossed paths.

Then again… She rarely saw Harry anymore either.

Why her? Again, she let the sound of her own name play in her ears. The man on her front stoop watched her in silence, and before she knew it, she stepped back, holding the screen door open with one clay-covered hand.

"Come in?"

It was the decision of an instant, tilting the end of her sentence up like that. Into a question.

He studied her for a moment, and it was the first time she thought about how strange the situation must seem to him as well. But then he nodded - once.

She let him in and he stopped, just far enough over the threshold for her to shut the door. She let the screen slam, but left the door itself open. This was Draco Malfoy in the end, and there were just some instincts that didn't go away as easily.

"What do you want?" she asked. As neutrally as she could manage. He was looking around, gazing at the pictures on her walls, the furniture. She watched him study his surroundings, and then suddenly he was looking at her, at her arms and the drying clay on them. His gaze flicked up and Ginny turned away.

"Let me just…" She left the sentence hanging and went into the kitchen, knowing he would follow. Ginny ran her arms under warm water and toweled the clay off. Strange; all she could think was that her pot would probably be ruined by the time she was ready to go back upstairs.

It would be very easy to be angry with him.

Finally she could stare into the sink no longer, and she turned, bracing herself against the counter, wishing she'd thought to pocket her wand instead of leaving it upstairs. "Malfoy—"

"I'm sorry to intrude," he interjected softly, and Ginny stopped. He looked straight at her, standing in the kitchen doorway, and there was nothing of the animosity she was used to seeing in his gaze. He was taller than she remembered. His hair was the same fine blond hue, ruffled by the wind. He had on a slate-coloured jumper and pristine tan trousers. Not a wrinkle to be seen.

Another virgin thought: Had he taken special care with his appearance today, to come here, to make an impression here? She wasn't sure what that impression was meant to be.

Part of her still railed against allowing him a favourable one.

They stood there for so long that Ginny's eyes began to burn from not blinking. Malfoy cleared his throat. "If… If you'd like me to go at any time, please say so."

Ginny pursed her lips. "Of course I'll say so," she said shortly, and he looked at her. "It's my bloody house."

He nodded. Glanced around again, and dammit, he wasn't _judging_ , he was just… looking. Seeing the life she'd made for herself. And it was a small place, much smaller than his inherited manors and estates. But she saw quietude there in his face, the appreciation.

It was enough to siphon the tiny spark of hostility away.

Ginny swallowed and looked around. "Do you… Tea?"

Quick grey eyes caught hers. Malfoy nodded. "Please."

Gods. Why was she offering tea to a Malfoy in her tiny little kitchen, on a Saturday morning? Ginny busied herself with tea bags, put the kettle on to boil, and watched her hands shake as she took the teacups from the cabinet. It had a surreal quality to it, as if she were on the verge of waking from a dream. Perhaps it was yesterday's rain.

"Here," she said several awkward moments later, handing him a steaming cup and a small pot of sugar. She hadn't looked at him the whole time, hadn't even asked what kind of tea he preferred, but he took it from her without a murmur. Then he waited until she sat before lowering himself into the chair on the far side of the wooden table. He stirred in two scoops of sugar and set his spoon aside. His fingers tapped once across her tabletop. Ginny glanced at his hand and wondered if it was normally so pale.

"Malfoy, what—" But really, she had a right to ask. Hells, she had a right to throw him back out onto the front porch if she liked. "What are you—What do you want?"

No matter how she phrased it, it sounded suspicious. But then, that's what she was, wasn't she? He couldn't honestly think she wouldn't react this way. The realisation that she was sitting in her own kitchen, fondling the handle of her own teacup in her own house brought her eyes up at last, and she stared at him flatly, waiting.

Malfoy exhaled through his nose. His brow furrowed slightly, as if in thought. "Well. There's no easy way to go about this," he said in a careful, clear voice.

Ginny frowned. At least he was still straightforward, whatever else he might be now. But still, he hesitated. Half of her longed to press it out of him with words of her own; the other half of her had nothing to say.

At last, he looked up. "I'd like… May I ask you a question?"

How odd. Ginny looked down at her seeping tea. "A question."

Malfoy nodded. He lifted his cup and blew across the surface of his tea. Steam curled up and teased at his face.

"Just one question?" she asked, unable to help herself. His continued hesitance was disconcerting.

Grey eyes flickered. He set his cup back down without drinking. "It's not really a question I have any business asking."

She stared at him, knowing now that her pot was going to harden upstairs. But bloody hell, she was curious now, curious, and feeling slightly invaded, and wondering why she felt that way other than because he was a Malfoy. He'd done nothing so far to put her on her guard, except act peculiarly. For him. It was out of character, and now he wanted to ask her a question.

She thought about turning him out. Going back to her loft.

"Never really stopped you before, did it?" she said quietly, sipping her tea. He looked at her for too long and she shrugged, not wanting to find emotion in his gaze. "You might as well ask it."

She could hear him breathing. It was an unsteady sound, and some tiny shift within her tingled her senses into awareness, made her wonder what question could be worth this obvious effort. It was not something he wanted to ask, that much she could see.

He blinked, inhaled. Lifted his chin the slightest bit. "I'd like to ask you about your daughter."

She froze, as much at the tone as at the words. It was impossible not to look at him. The question demanded it, demanded that she see he wasn't joking. He did not seem to be; his gaze was settled, and yet there was an underlying anxiousness to it. "What?"

"I need to ask you about… her death." Almost whispering this time. His lips thinned.

Ginny toyed with a loose curl of her hair, waiting to feel anger, disgust at such a bold invasion by so hateful a person as Draco Malfoy. But it was anything but bold. Subdued, maybe. There was earnestness in it.

Merlin, but she wasn't behaving as she'd expected herself to behave. It was as if her mind were not her own anymore and had not been for some time. "Why do you want to know?"

Malfoy paused. "For Harry."

And there was the surprise. Ginny looked at him, wondering where Harry fit into all of this, despite the fact that Maggie had been his daughter as well. Malfoy met her gaze evenly, locked it. Ginny opened her mouth… and something fell into place. She had no idea what, or how, but suddenly it was there.

Ginny set her cup down with a crack against her plate. Leaned back, so, so empty and raw, but she couldn't stop _staring_.

Malfoy was the one. With Harry.

For two _months_.

She'd known Harry was seeing someone. She wasn't sure how she'd figured it out, but the time when they'd had lunch, the single night of dinner on the river two weeks ago… There was just something about the way his eyes traveled over the night-lit waters, the way he walked, and smiled. She'd known there was someone. And she'd known it was somewhat serious. Serious enough for two months, anyway. But she'd never suspected Malfoy, not for one instant.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

She thought of the two of them, Harry and Malfoy lying tangled together, making love in the very bed Harry had made love to her in.

Her toes clenched against the bare floor.

Maybe if she went back to bed and got up again, none of this would be here. Malfoy wouldn't be here, Harry wouldn't be here, her daughter's ghost wouldn't be skirting around the edges of a conversation she wouldn't be having. She would be up in her loft with the sunshine and her clay - wet hands -

"I wish I could tell you he's not himself." Malfoy's voice broke through her thoughts. He wasn't looking at her anymore. "But I…"

His shoulder twitched. "I'm afraid I don't know what 'himself' was."

Ginny picked up her tea and took a swallow. Felt the liquid nearly burn her tongue before sliding down her throat. Heat flamed: painful, then fading.

She still had no idea how to respond. The words had gotten lost somewhere in her throat, trapped beneath the images of Harry and Malfoy. But he spoke again, as if she had asked questions and he was answering them.

"He isn't sleeping. At first he was, but now…" A faint sigh. Malfoy shifted in his chair. "I… decided to ask you."

For help? Words Malfoy wouldn't, or couldn't, utter even now? Ginny picked up her spoon and stirred the remains of her tea. Watched the bits of leaves at the bottom swirl and settle.

He had no business asking her something like this. For an instant, she felt so sure about it that she considered telling him to go, _we're finished, good day_. Harry was an excuse, a stepping stone to some end she couldn't even figure out, and this man had no right being near either of them. But when she looked up, the words died again. Malfoy sat straight in his chair, staring at the cup in his hand. Clenched in his hand. Whitened fingers.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked again instead.

"Because I can't help him without knowing."

"You're in love with him." She meant it to sound as accusing as it did, and for a moment she reveled in the reality of Draco Malfoy pulling back. His eyes were caught out in the open, and he swallowed.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"How long?"

He gave her the answer before she could consider whether or not she really wanted it. "Antarctica."

Antarctica. So Malfoy had been there, too. She longed to go back and hear Harry's words in the café after he'd returned, to scrutinize them with new ears. Had he spoken of Malfoy and she'd simply missed the implication? Had they been _together_ in Antarctica, or was it later?

She had loved Harry first. Had been in love with him first, long before Malfoy. She wanted to say it to him, say that even though their marriage had failed, for so many reasons besides the final, devastating blow - even though Harry had already pulled away not only from her but from all things female - that she had loved Harry first. She'd had him first and he had loved her, and nothing Malfoy did would ever change that.

It took too many heartbeats to remember that the emotion was no longer real, just an echo of what it had been, and that she was missing _feeling it_ and not missing _it_.

Was Harry… in love with Malfoy?

And then another thought: Did it really matter?

The issue still stood, regardless. Harry was hurting, crumbling. Malfoy was asking for her help to stop it. Who Harry loved didn't matter. It only mattered who loved Harry.

It was hard to include Malfoy in that grouping, harder than almost anything she could remember doing. Old anger flashed up, new anger at a sacred, personal place disturbed by one who had never deserved such welcome, and Ginny jerked up to glare at him.

"Don't you _ever_ hurt him, you—" The insults fell away from her lips. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel him watching her: her bent head, her fingers clutching at her teacup. Taking measure as he always did, only this time she had no idea what his conclusions would be. Certainly not the disdain of when they were young.

She drew a breath and remembered a Harry she knew she hadn't seen in over a year. A Harry who might have disappeared completely already.

"If you ever hurt him, I will find you and beat you to death."

Malfoy looked down at the table. His fingers twitched. And then he met her eyes.

"You won't need to find me," he said. "If I ever hurt him, I'll come looking for you."

Ginny could only nod. Her chest hurt beyond words. Things she'd never uttered, that she spent hours every week putting down beneath everything else where they couldn't envelop her. Now was no time for that.

His voice sounded, almost a whisper. "He doesn't blame you."

Ginny breathed. It could have been a sob. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Laughed, so softly. The line between humour and despair had faded long ago. "Why not?" she croaked.

Draco looked through her and she could see the glimmer in his eyes, the massive sadness.

"Because he blames himself."

Was it wrong to feel relieved? Was it even worse to trust the word of Draco Malfoy on this point? Ginny frowned, on the edge of tears she hadn't anticipated. Perhaps she needed to hear it from Harry, even though it was very easy to believe Malfoy. Perhaps, even if she heard it from Harry a thousand times, she still would not believe it.

And Malfoy… Malfoy wasn't even related to it at all, hadn't been a part of it until he'd stepped back into her life less than an hour ago. And yet… she wanted to take his word for it, desperately. Wanted to, and hated that she still couldn't let herself.

She sighed, a bit too forcefully, and sipped the dregs of her tea. "He should never have stayed in that house."

Malfoy studied her, fingers poised over his cup. "That's why you left."

She nodded, unable to look at him. The flat felt huge, the space between words loomed. Ginny fiddled with her teacup handle and thought of the months since she'd left Harry's house, taken her share of things and… and gone. As if a child's soul could be broken down between two parents. Still, she'd needed a part of Maggie. She couldn't have her room, or her bed or quilts, but…

"Is he…" she stammered. Looked up and then away again. "Is her room still…"

Malfoy nodded. Ginny blinked down at her teacup, and something inside her loosened a tiny bit. For a brief instant the thought of Malfoy looking in on her daughter's room felt like it should hurt. She let it go.

"He sits on her bed every night."

His voice sounded so empty. She peered at him, curious in spite of herself.

"He looks at photographs. Boxes of toys that…" Malfoy drew a labored breath and Ginny wondered at the fragility beneath it. "That haven't been touched in months."

One of his hands climbed as if to cover his mouth. Ginny pictured dusty boxes, Harry's once-capable hands shaking as they rifled through them, and helpless sorrow welled inside her so fast she had to swallow or she would make some sound—How long had Malfoy watched? How often?

Ginny had fled, unable to stand it even once. Leaving Harry alone with it. Gods—it was a terrifying miracle that she still had him in this world, that he had not given in, given up. Gone with Maggie.

Ginny pressed the tears back with her fingers. Took one last moment, hoping she could gather enough of herself to get through this.

"I've gone through her things. The things I have, anyway." It would be hard to look at him, at anything, while she said these things. "I've touched them all, and I never thought he hadn't."

Malfoy said nothing.

"Her hair… was darker than mine. More auburn. It grew like a weed, all the way to her waist by the time she was three. We were supposed to get it cut the week after she—"

No. Couldn't go there yet. But she knew she'd have to today, before Malfoy left. It was where Harry was stuck after all, and though she had difficulty speaking of it, Ginny knew she was not stagnated in that moment like he was.

She spoke of chess, of green, green eyes with flecks of gold. Of a bald head in the shape of a cone the first day, and tiny fingers plucking at Harry's ear the second. Harry had cradled her like she was a part of his body. And then the series of visits, from house to house to joke shop to Burrow to house, then starting all over again for holidays, until Maggie was practically walking on her own through the various living rooms. Bushy-haired cousins, and those with silken fire for hair instead, a hundred, hundred moments of reflection. Her own mother's hands giving Ginny the gift of knowledge, food, and strength.

Strangely, it was the look on Malfoy's face that steadied her. She couldn't describe it, even to herself, but it held her above the torrential waters that threatened. Kept her voice clear.

"Ron took her for Easter. It's… it's a Muggle holiday." She dismissed it with a shake of her head, and smiled faintly. "They did it all wrong, but she got to spend the night. They took her for lots of holidays. Ron even made one up so that he could steal her again. Something about Quidditch. He and Charlie bought her a broom, and I thought Harry was going to kill him that weekend, she was only three and a half—"

And suddenly she was there, Harry's face on a sunny day half a year later clearly in her mind, and she was ready.

"It wasn't his fault," she whispered. "She couldn't swim and the water was too high. He ran in. Didn't even kick off his shoes. My brothers hadn't even noticed yet, and I couldn't… couldn't move…"

 _Maybe I didn't see it. Maybe I saw it and I did nothing._

"She…" Ginny found she was clenching her teacup and made herself let go. "It was too late. He tried to… For several minutes. Hermione tried magic. But it was just too late."

Was that really her voice? So dull, so lifeless. She knew it wasn't her fault, knew there was nothing she could have done differently by the time she'd realized what was happening; she'd been too far away.

The idea that maybe Harry thought otherwise had kept her awake more nights than she could remember.

"She tripped. Lost her footing and then couldn't get back up. That's the only way I can explain it. And by the time we…"

Oh, there was no finishing it. She'd already seen it in her head, and she couldn't look for it again.

The taste in the back of her throat was familiar. Describing the scene for her mother months ago… she'd tasted it then. Again, when she'd relived it for the St. Mungo's counselor. Again. Again. More times than she wanted to count, until it had been easier to just shake her head and banish it. She'd thought about it - how could she not? - but it was the first time she'd uttered the words aloud in over a month.

She wasn't sure what she would do if Malfoy reached across the table and touched her hand. Touched her at all. But he didn't move. Only watched her quietly, letting her work her way through the miasma of sorrow. Climb back up the slope until she was above the raging waters again.

Ginny gathered herself. Breathed a shaky sigh that she was long past being embarrassed about. Her gaze settled on Malfoy's fingers, long and elegant, curled slightly against her tabletop. The image of Harry's fingers wrapped around them, threaded between them, flickered in her mind.

This time, the sick feeling faded.

"Thank you," he said. So, so softly.

She let out a tiny huff of a laugh and nodded her head, unable to meet his eyes. After a moment, she gestured helplessly at the kettle. "More tea?"

And he nodded.

 

 **iii.**

Harry rolled onto his back in the clean, cool darkness of his bedroom. The faint light from beyond the drapes looked grey. Draco's hand played over Harry's side, fingers drifting up and down languidly.

"How was your day?"

Harry turned his head and found Draco's eyes on him, soft and vague in the dark. He smiled slightly. "Walked home from work."

"Did you get rained on?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded. Looked back at the ceiling and thought about the trickle of rainwater over his face and throat. His lover stretched beside him. A hand settled on Harry's arm, fingers warm.

Harry looked at him again. "What about you? How was your day off?"

Dark eyes again. Draco's throat and chest were a muted expanse of blue shadow against the far window. "Went and saw an old acquaintance."

Harry waited, but Draco said nothing further. Harry rolled onto his side, facing the other man. Thought about pulling the covers higher and trapping their joined heat as close as he could. Draco's eyes flickered. Swept over his face. Harry felt the fingers against his arm tighten.

He frowned slightly. "Something wrong?"

For a moment, Draco just looked back at him, until Harry was certain he wasn't going to answer. And then, the shivered tensing of a movement, fingers closing around his wrist, and low words.

"Tell me about Maggie."

Harry's ears went hushed, the momentary press of silence. He stared at Draco, and Draco stared straight back at him. It wasn't until Harry tried to pull away that he realized what Draco's grip on his wrist was for.

"Let go."

The other man didn't respond verbally. He drew closer to Harry under the sheets. His body heat hovered like an invisible blanket. Harry felt his cheeks flush. Felt the deep pit in his belly begin to ache again.

Thoughts he didn't want crept up on him. Harry got his elbow under him and leaned over Draco, unwilling to remember, knowing what had worked before, what was tried and tested. He bent and kissed Draco's chest, tiny open-mouthed flickers of tongue. Draco's hand came up and threaded through his hair gently. Stroked the nape of his neck. Harry felt rather than heard the sigh. He found the hollow just at the base of Draco's throat and closed his eyes. Dipped into it with his tongue.

"I know why you blame yourself." Draco's voice came more clearly than it should have. Harry froze, and the relief that had begun to edge up dripped away again.

"Draco," he whispered.

"You do it because if you keep blaming yourself, you won't have to think about her being gone. Maybe that it won't even be true anymore."

Harry felt the fingers around his wrist. They had never left. Weak anger filtered through him, but he was too weary to grasp it and it slipped away again. The hand cupping his neck squeezed, and Harry dropped across Draco's chest, suddenly too tired to think. To deal with it. To fight.

For a long while, all he could hear was the mix of their breathing, and feel the steady rise and fall of Draco's body beneath his. His lover's arm was an even weight over his shoulders. He could feel the entire length of the other man against him, reminding him of colder nights, huddled warmth.

"Tell me about her."

Harry stared at Draco's chest, at the delicate rise and fall as he breathed. He pursed his lips. "I don't want to."

Draco's hand brushed through his hair. Lips touched and lingered against his forehead. "I don't care," Draco said softly.

The betrayal was swift; Harry knew he'd stiffened. But Draco's arms neither tightened nor went slack. His breath still ruffled against Harry's temple. Draco moved, lifting his leg to slide up, over Harry's thigh, down to his calf. The intimacy of it was soul-aching. Draco's toes flexed against his skin, and his leg tucked Harry tightly to his body.

"Tell me." The gentlest of orders.

Harry allowed himself to listen to the heartbeat thumping into his ear. Steady, without tremble or falter. Draco's chest was smooth, cool from the air, but containing a heat just beneath the surface. His breast rose and fell, rose and fell, and Harry knew.

This body was not just alive, but living. And there was a difference. He could hear Draco breathing, feel his arm curved around him as if it would never leave. Harry had quickened that breath many times, stilted that heart, watched in mesmerized silence as Draco clenched, came, mouth open helplessly, muscles tensed tight enough to cramp. Draco's legs, clamped around him, his sweat slicking Harry's own skin, and that breathless, sweet sound that shuddered from Draco's throat just when he couldn't hold it any longer, as he gave in and let Harry have him and mold him and carry him through the scant, infinite seconds between control and coming.

Gods. Harry shut his eyes, unable to feel anything concrete. Just waves and waves of something new and tangled. Draco stroked his hair and didn't say a word. And in that quiet, Harry found words of his own.

~fin~


End file.
